


A History of Scars

by Last_Haven



Series: Shitennou in Crystal Tokyo AU [7]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Original Character(s), Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2877347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Last_Haven/pseuds/Last_Haven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kunzite's history is written in the scars on his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A History of Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Third installment of the Repeating Motifs series.

                Kunzite’s body is a canvas of scars in both lives. Some have faded in time, but Kunzite can still feel the tight pull of the tissue as he curls his fingers into fist or when he stretches out his leg before he kicks. Most are so fine and faded that even most of his lovers could never find them all. His fingers if placed in the right light become eerily crisscrossed with white; these are mostly from everyday nicks and cuts, from sharpening his sword to being careless with a kitchen knife. His arms fare no better. So he wears long sleeves and tucks his hands into his pockets or wears gloves.

                Some though, have histories to them, stories that he has shared over many a camp fire. They are large, fine, and all are trophies of victories and failures.

                Kunzite remembers them all.

* * *

 

                In his first life, there is a scar across the back of his wrist. It is scarcely larger than a dime, but it is purple and ugly. He gets it when he is three and he stands too close to one of glass blowers despite the warnings of workers. Then before anyone could pull him back, a drop of molten glass flies and hit his wrist.

                He howls and tries to shake it off as everyone tries to hurry to his side and help him. “The entire time,” his man servant will tell his father later, “Hakan _effendi_ refused to cry. No tears passed from eyes. He was as brave as _Aga_ Levent.”

                Hakan could not bear to explain that he didn’t cry merely because he shook too hard for him to even think of crying; the whole time he was lost to the pain and the shaking. But maybe his father knew, because he turns to him with his eyes gentle and bright and he smiles knowingly.

                “In any case, I have very _lucky_ son,” his father says.

                Lying in his mother’s lap as she pets his head and his father smiles at him, Hakan decides the pain was worth it.

* * *

 

                There is a scar just behind his ear, disappearing into his hair. It is thin and pale, hardly noticeable unless someone started playing with the hair there. He gets it when he is five when he tried to take his mother’s scissors to his hair.

                He struggles with his mother as she tries to pull it away, but he has always been stronger than his mother and he jerks his wrist free but drags the edge against his scalp.

                “ _Oğul!_ Stop this, you’re hurting yourself,” she shouted. He only stops struggling when she starts to weep; he is so ashamed to cause his mother distress that he drops the scissors back to the floor. “Oğul, why? Why are you trying to cut off your lovely hair?”

                He feels stupid and childish, so he turns his face to the floor. “ _Ana_ , they all said it’s a sign that I am cursed. They say it all the time—I see them whisper behind their hands about it, Ana. I just want them to stop.”

                She stares at him for a long time then opens her arms to him. His father had said he was too old to be held so, but for once he crawls into his mother’s arms and buries his face in her _entari_. “Oh, my Hakan, if you cut off your hair—even if you dyed it—it would not stop those whispers. People are cruel, oğul, and they will always speak so. But they are wrong.” She pulls him away so she could cup his face in his hands. “Your hair is not a sign of a curse—it is an omen of nothing. You shall make your own luck, Hakan. Remember that.”

* * *

 

                There is a scar in the middle of his palm on his left hand that crosses from one side to the other. He gets it when he is nine and he is interrupted in his training when a servant hurries in. He is agitated before then—he is struggling with a new sword style his tutors have him trying to learn—so he almost misses the servant and he accidently slashes his palm with his dagger, cutting in deep.

                After his doctors stitch him back together, he calls the messenger forward again, wanting to know what was so important that the messenger thought he could distract Hakan from his training.

                His father is dead.

                Suddenly, his hand stops hurting altogether.

* * *

 

                He is nine and he is now _Sultan es-Selatin._ His crown is heavy and his throne is uncomfortable.

                They leave no scars to show, but Hakan feels them pull at his skin all the same.

                Three months pass and King Aethlius of the Golden Kingdom comes to his palace and asks him to join his court, to train his son when he is born. Hakan accepts.

                Hakan becomes Kunzite. There are no visible scars for that either.

* * *

 

                There is a scar on the web of skin between his thumb and his index finger on his right hand. It is small and nearly faded. He gets it when he is ten and Endymion is only a few months old and he bites down like a shark on Kunzite’s hand. It takes great will power not to try and shake the infant off. Queen Kalyke is horrified.

                “Please, lord Kunzite, forgive my son—he is just a baby,” she apologizes as she manages to pry Endymion off. She sends for her husband’s finest doctors as an apology, but Kunzite doesn’t care.

                “Why not?” Nephrite asks as they examine the still red mark once the bandages come off, the four year old standing on the tips of his toes to see before Kunzite crouches down. “I’ve seen wolverines who didn’t clamp down that hard.”

                Kunzite shrugs. “He _is_ just a baby.”

                He still uses the scar to shame Endymion into training when he gets that restless look in his eyes.

* * *

 

                There is a scar next to his eye, thin but bright despite it’s age. He gets it when he is seventeen and Jadeite is the cause. The God-King of the Eastern Lands is only seven and almost as small as Endymion is so when he arrives to training carrying a halberd called a _ji_ with that’s nearly twice his size, he has to fight his amusement back. Nephrite doesn’t bother to try and in the end Kunzite has to talk Jadeite into challenging him instead of Nephrite.

                “Besides,” he admits as he grabs a spear, “I need to see how well you can handle it.”

                Any amusement dies in an instant after he shouts for Jadeite to begin. The tiny emperor shoots forward like a shooting star and with practiced grace, aims directly between Kunzite’s eyes. Stepping aside, he can see the surprise and instant admiration in the young God-King’s face when Kunzite dodges. Kunzite wonders how many other sparring partners young Jadeite killed before now. Silence swells between them all.

                “Well.” Kunzite turns solemnly back to Jadeite. “Seems we won’t have to worry about you with spear type weapons.”

                Jadeite doesn’t know what a compliment that is—Endymion and Nephrite do however and they _stare_ —but he steps back and lets his halberd rest against his shoulder. He risks a smile.

                Kunzite smiles back. “But let’s check your swordsmanship next.”

                Jadeite quickly gets a few scars of his own.

* * *

 

                There is a scar that runs from his right side down to his thigh. He gets it when he is nineteen and in battle. His enemy is using some sort of chain whip that is nearly as sharp as his own sword. It manages to catch his leg, but Kunzite claims his enemy’s head before it can bite in deep.

                It is not a special scar in comparison to the others. There is an arrow scar in his shoulder that is much more impressive, and a small chunk missing from his hip where a spear grazed him.

                It is, however, Venus’s favorite to trace.

* * *

 

                There is a thin, shallow scar on his right palm. He gets it when he is twenty seven and it has three companion scars across the palms of Endymion’s guardians. It is their oath, their pledge to return their wayward prince back to his home.

                It reopens and bleeds when they begin to fight on the moon.

* * *

 

                There is one wound which never has time to become a scar. It would have been large and ugly had it healed; he gets it when Venus shoves her sword through his shoulder.

                Even before the blood loss numbs him, Kunzite fails to feel the pain. He didn’t care in the first place when they found each other on the battlefield and charged at each other to duel. Their royal charges are dead, their corpses laying together, finally joined eternally in death. They have failed in the most severe way.

                He reaches up and places his palm against her cheek, distracted by the tears he feels running over it. Idly, he runs his fingers through her hair, _one last time_ , watches as the tendrils slip through his grasp.

                In a moment, he will drag his dagger into her stomach, catching her unaware, but for the moment, he ponders those scars she left on him that never bled.

                Looking back at her defeated eyes, he reaches for his dagger.

* * *

 

                He is reborn as Daisuke and his body is made new and unscarred once more. It doesn’t last long.

* * *

 

                There is a scar on his stomach, mottled and twisted, and he loves showing it to Suma whenever she asks to see it.

                “I got it when I was day old,” he explains, letting her press her tiny fingers against it. “I had a hole in my stomach. I had to get surgery for it.”

                “They fixed-ed it, Dai- _nii-chan_?” she asks, those wide brow eyes turning up at him. She is barely three and he adores her.

                “Yeah, but it left this scar.”

                She purses her lips. “Suma kiss it. Make it better.”

                He smiles. “Would you?”

                “Yes,” she nods, and leans over to press her tiny, chewed on lips to his stomach. “All better now.”

                “Thank you,” he says, sweeping her into his arms.

* * *

 

                There is a scar that runs from his shoulder down to his bicep. He gets it when he was four and climbing up the tree his parents forbade him from climbing. A branch scratches him as he falls. He lands flat on his back, stunned, and it knocks the wind out of him. For a moment, he merely stares up at the tree in surprise— _how I’d get down here?—_ but then the pain hits. He yelps loudly before his father practically falls on him in his rush to scoop him up.

                “You’re okay, you’re okay,” his father soothes him as the doctors stitch him up.

                His mother glares at his father as she walks into the room, and Daisuke knows they will fight tonight.

                Still his father grins. “He never once cried. Didja, Daisuke?”

                He shakes his head.

                For a moment, his mother smiles.

* * *

 

                There is a scar on leg and it is still a near perfect replica of Yuki’s teeth. He gets it when he is twenty one and she is four. For reasons known only to her, one of his twin stepsister sneaks up behind him and bites him right on his calf. He nearly falls straight on her but she immediately begins to bawl, complaining about the taste.

                His step father rushes him to the hospital while his mother tries to calm Yuki down.

                “That was like watching a tiger pounce on its prey,” Suma informs him as the doctor puts in stitches. “You want me to smack her when we get home?”

                “Suma-chan!” his stepfather scolds, but Daisuke just smiles at his stepsister.

                “She’s only a little girl,” he shrugs but pauses for a moment because it feels strange to say those words. _Have I said them before?_

                “Daisuke-kun?” his stepfather calls, drawing him back to reality.

                “Well,” he sighs, “at least Yume didn’t bite me too.”

                “Then you could have had a matched set!” Suma laughs. His stepfather tries to look stern, but he ends up joining them in laughing as well.

* * *

 

                Daisuke doesn’t enjoy pain, but there is one scar he wishes he could bear. It is the scar that is on Suma’s chest, the one that they keep reopening to administer her chemo.

                He hurts in her place as she tries to smile bravely, but he sees her crying after each time she combs her hair and finds more of her pale blonde hair—only a few shades darker than his own—amongst the bristles.

                That is one scar he wished he could bear if it meant _she_ wouldn’t have to bear it.

* * *

 

                If he gained any new scars during the time he served Beryl again, he can’t find them.

* * *

 

                His first new scar after the birth of Crystal Tokyo is from Mars. A spark stings his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch, even as a ball of fire flies past him. He had known she was bluffing, but he wishes she hadn’t been.

                Nephrite might have found respite with his family, and Jadeite and Zoisite might have found redemption in their quest, but he has nothing. Instead, all Kunzite can do is join Endymion at his side, and hopes they will instead leave scars enough to expose his shame.

                His new scar doesn’t last long however. The Silver Crystal’s healing power speeds the process and it vanishes soon enough. Even the small scratches that his mother left on his face when she slapped him disappear in barely two days.

                Suma accuses him of masochism and then of pouting. He wishes he could refute either.

                “Well, look at it this way,” she tries, leaning her head against his shoulder. The hospital bed is tiny, so she practically lays on him, but he doesn’t have much off-duty time to spend with her so they try to make the best of it. The Crystal can’t cure cancer apparently, to his bitter disappointment. “At least mom’s career is taking a big boost. You’re the only ‘outed’ guard of the new king, right? Hey, shouldn’t your dad being doing good too?”

                “He was filming in Norway when the attacks started,” he reminds her.

                “Oh.”

                It is another wound that will never properly scar over.

* * *

 

                He gets his wish finally. He is five hundred and twenty and there is now a scar on his right shoulder and a mate on his left side. Venus had wrapped her chain around and tugged; it’s almost a relief when he feels the links dig in.

                “Will that do?” she asks, ignoring his gob smacked expression. “Will you stop acting like a zombie now or do I need to make you bleed some more before you start getting it through your skull that you’ve already _been_ forgiven?”

                Perhaps it’s because it was Venus weapon that cut him, but this scar he gets to keep. And in that he is glad.

                It’s proof that there was redemption, even for him.

* * *

 

                There is a scar on the inside of his palms, four tiny crescents pressed deep into the flesh. He gets it when he is seven hundred and thirty three when Minako screams and clenches his hand so hard her nails bite through.

                “I’m _so_ sorry,” she gasps after he returns from having his hand stitched up. “I was going to trim my nails, but I kept forgetting what with everything going on and-”

                He shrugs and hurries over to see his son. “It was worth it,” he whispers.

* * *

 

                There are four scars that cover his chest. He gets them when one of the invaders manages to rake its claws across his front. It was a close thing, but he manages to win, nearly passing out from blood loss. The Silver Crystal is missing, which means no accelerated healing, so he is forced to retreat.

                Minako runs her hands over the bandages lightly as she frowns. “How can I trust you to take care of yourself when you get hurt like this?”

                “Sorry,” he rasps, still groggy from the medication.

                She smiles giving one of the bandage a sharp pat that makes him gasp. “Well, you better not do it again.” She pauses, and then says “I’ll see you soon.”

                “That’s a promise,” he reminds her as they share a kiss. She blows one more as she leaves the room, hurrying to join the other sailor soldiers. They’re going to try and raise a shield, and maybe it will keep the invaders back. Kunzite hopes it will work because if it does, it means that he can finally lead a search for their missing Small Lady.

                Maybe, if they hurry, they can find her before she too has scars to bear.

* * *

 

                Kunzite’s body bears many scars both on his skin and below. He remembers all of them.

* * *

 

_There is something beautiful about all scars of whatever nature. A scar means the hurt is over, the wound is closed and healed, done with._

_-Harry Crews_

**Author's Note:**

> For Kunzite's backstory, I took hints from the Sailor Moon game, Another Story, which state that Kunzite lived in Turkey and tried to incorporate that into the story. Since there were quite a few non-English words in here, I thought a glossary might help.
> 
> Effendi – Turkish term of respect, such as Sir or Mister.   
> Aga – Turkish term for a military leader.  
> Oğul – Turkish word for son.  
> Ana – Turkish term for mother.  
> Entari – A traditional robe.  
> Sultan es-Selatin – Sultan of Sultans.   
> Ji – A Chinese halberd.  
> (O)nii – Japanese term for brother, usually followed by an honorific (such as -chan, -kun, or -san).


End file.
